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After the unprecedented success of the Bournville Students’ Rugby Club, my cat Binky and I have decided to expand our venture into other areas that we strongly believe in. One such area is feminism. So, I proudly present to you the Bournville Students’ Feminist Society!

For all those wishing to join our fight against the cissexist, capitalist, white supremacist, heteropatriarchy, or the CCWSH for short, I would just like to lay down some ground rules so that we can be a cohesive team. I will begin with a ranking of your privileges. If your privilege is at the top of the list then that means your opinion is less valid. If your privilege is at the bottom of the list then that means your opinion is more valid, regardless of your life experiences or history of oppression.

Privileges

1 – White male privilege – This is the most privileged of all the privileges and you are PRIVELEGED to such an extent that you make me feel SICK and you are not invited. Get out! What’s that? Both your parents died in a car accident? I don’t care – out, out, out, I HATE YOU!

2 – Male privilege – You are a male and so that gives you lots of privileges that a female doesn’t have. However, you are not white so you aren’t as bad as a white male but you are still a male so I still hold you responsible for many of the world’s ills.

3 – White privilege – You are very privileged but your saving grace is that you don’t have a bit of skin hanging between your legs. However, you are white. I don’t care if you are working class, have no arms, are blind or deaf because you are white and therefore you are more privileged than anyone non-white. Even Beyonce!

4 – Human privilege – You are a human so you should count yourself extremely lucky to have been born with that level of privilege. You get to talk, for example, and tackle complex issues such as why there is a disproportionate amount of female murders in TV detective shows. If you ever find yourself lecturing to a donkey about the patriarchy you should definitely check your privilege because you don’t know the oppression that that donkey has gone through.

5 – Cat privilege –Cats have a level of privilege that other animals don’t have because they live in houses and are fed by loving owners. Also, they get stroked a lot and the pay gap between the cost of cat food and the cost of goldfish food is absolutely shocking and cats should check their privilege if they find themselves having a heated discussion with a goldfish about who’s a better role model for the women of today, Taylor Swift or Queen Boudicca.

For those of you who are still a bit confused about this list it means that Binky, as the least privileged member of our group, always has the last word on any discussion we may have. Binky is from an ethnic background, what with being a black cat, and is female. So, let’s all feel sorry for Binky and whenever she has anything to say I would like it if you patronise and demean her by agreeing with her instantaneously, even if what she has said is complete fucking wank like that time when she tried to organise a death squad to take out all the dogs in the local area.

Whilst I’m on the topic I believe it is really important to make sure that an ethnic member of our group is made aware that they are ethnic at every opportunity and also that that means their opinion is better. For example, if an Asian member of the group said something like “I hate Big Issue sellers who shout too loudly just because they are men” then you should reply with something like this “You are Asian and what you said was right.” That way they will be made to feel like they are being treated differently on account of the colour of their skin and that is something to aim towards.

Our initiation ceremony is a low-key affair as we hate the Bournville Students’ Rugby Club and we don’t want to be like them. This is a difficult position for me to be in as I am the head of the Bournville Students’ Rugby Club but I find it incredibly easy to hold two very conflicting ideals in my mind. For example, I think it is OK to say “kill all white men” but at the same time my Dad is a white man, as is my boyfriend, and I love them both. How do I do it? Magic! For the initiation ceremony we will all meet up at my Grandad’s house, Old Pops as he is fondly called, and we will murder him in cold blood for all the pain and suffering he and his like have caused the world. The old cunt is going to die soon anyway.

I hope this has enticed you to join my group. One of the biggest benefits of the Bournville Students’ Feminist Society is that if you join, regardless of your past actions, behaviours and decisions, you are automatically a better person than anyone else who hasn’t joined.

Hello. You are reading this exclusive leaflet because you have made it through the rigorous and arduous selection process for my cult: the Bournville Students’ Rugby Club. I am writing this leaflet from my Daddy’s flat in Dubai. I am not wearing any clothes because I am fixated in an infantile state of mind whereby nudity still fascinates me and never fails to make me laugh. Without further ado, I invite you to read the introductory pamphlet.

Initiation Ceremony

Initiations are a vitally important part of the BSRC experience. It will begin by meeting at 9am – in the morning – at my grandparents’ house in Kings Norton. On arrival, you will be expected to do a shot, shot, shot!!! of my dog’s piss. Then you will made to do thirty press-ups whilst said dog, Tarquin, aggressively fucks your leg having been deliberately led into a dangerous state of arousal. After that, you will be expected to watch an episode of “Deal or no Deal”. Every time Noel Edmonds swishes his golden hair and says “hello”, “and”, “how”, “are”, “you”, “deal”, “or”, “no”, “deal”, “is”, “it” or “metamorphosis”, you will have to allow me to place my entirely bald bollocks on your head so you will them wear like a little hat and drink a bottle of red wine and a pint of balsamic vinegar which Mummy has very kindly let me use.

The grand finale of the initiation involves my grandfather. Old Pops, as you will be required to address him, is unfortunately incontinent. However, I have turned this into a positive for the purposes of the Ceremony.In the build-up, Old Pops has been fed on a diet consisting solely of fig rolls, chicken madras and vindaloo. I have then blocked his arse with a large champagne cork. During the course of the day I will release the cork, allowing a deposit of Old Pops’ excrement to cascade out like Niagara Falls. You will then be forced to wipe it up. Best of luck guys!

Post-Initiation Ceremony Celebrations

Having been initiated into the BSRC, all lucky members will be invited to celebrate. The Celebration will commence at my parents’ house in Bournville at 7pm. We will begin by eating some party rings, playing a furious game of apple bobbing and drinking a dirty pint of vodka, rum, beer, cider, prosecco, absinthe, camel semen, grappa, gin, champagne, whisky, ale, tequila and duck egg. Having enjoyed your dirty pint you and all other members will be given your official BSRC regalia which is a long, hooded white cloak.

Once kitted out, we will do some chanting beginning with: “We all love BSRC”, “BSRC is the best”, “If you love BSRC clap your hands” and finishing with a light-hearted rendition of “I want to brutally murder the members of rival rugby club Students of Bournville Rugby Club.”

After this fun, still in full gear, we will board a bus into Birmingham City Centre for the main set-piece of the celebration. Once in town, we will capture a homeless man and knock him unconscious with some Official BSRC Rohypnol. He will then be transported to the candlelit stone table I have had erected in the middle of Cadbury’s World. I will then plunge a ceremonial, bejewelled dagger into his heart. All present BSRC members will be required to drink a pint of his blood whilst I, your leader, master and dark overlord, will eat his heart.

Thus, the Post-Initiation Ceremony will be brought to a close. I hope we can all enjoy an evening of harmless, relaxed banter!

Week schedule

Once you have become a fully-fledged member of BSRC, there is a weekly schedule to adhere to. It is as follows:

Monday

Group therapy session where we talk about our darkest and most secret feelings.

Tuesday

Mass game of kerplunk. Riotous, rowdy and revered, to have the best possible time don’t bring your girlfriend!

Wednesday

The busiest day of the week, Wednesday begins with a hard-fought victory (fingers and webbed feet crossed!) over a rival Rugby Club. Twice a year we play the SoBRC which are always rambunctious affairs.

In the evening we go to the zoo and look at all the pretty animals and remind ourselves of the wonder of nature and evolution. We then drink, drink and drink some more, before going to the public toilets in the Bullring, affectionately called Loo Bar, and do some chanting whilst trying to cop-off with the tasty toilet attendants who are known to be right slags.

Thursday

Recovery from last night!

Friday

To celebrate the end of the working week, we get utterly destroyed in a Wetherspoon’s and behave like consummate gentlemen by vomiting, chanting and taking off as many of our clothes as possible.

Saturday

Group trip to the swimming baths and then an early night watching X-Factor.

Sunday

To cap off a hectic week there is a compulsory (topless) group Skype session where we recount the weeks events.

BSRC Official Terminology and phrases

Finally, to ease your integration into the BSRC here are a few handy terms to familiarise yourself with.

Slag – A woman who has ever had sex.

True gent – A man who has ever had sex.

Fag – A homosexual. Anyone suspected of homosexuality will be severely punished by being forced to fellate me which I will not enjoy.

Thursday last week, a rather large group of friends and I went careering down the Kilburn High Road to an establishment that was doing two for one cocktails. It’s a great deal and they taste simply wonderful. At one point in the evening, a balding gentleman sat down on the table next to us and began repeatedly asking, quite insistently: “Is this seating taken?” We all nodded in approval, too caught up in the warm, fuzzy feeling of tipsiness and atmospheric lighting.

It is the 21st Century after all, so we soon got that irresistible urge to document the evening in case we forgot; or more likely, so we could say crassly to everyone else we know “Hey, look, we have a life! Look how great this is!” As such, we asked the aforementioned gentleman to take a photo of us. He, as most people in that situation would do, obliged. Through a forced smile and that faint feeling of intrusion you have when taking photos of strangers (when they’ve asked of course, not just for the laugh) he snapped a few of us. The poses were mixed, with some going for Pout, others for Having Loads of Fun, and most settling on just Smile. They were, on the whole, nice.

Soon after this glamorous photo shot, it dawned on the girlfriend of my friend that she had lost her phone and that this was an Emergency. As is often the case, we split into two groups: one opting for sitting around and tapping surfaces pretending like they’re looking and the other actually looking. After five minutes of fruitless scurrying the balding fellow sloped off (I imagine you see where this is going) but the looking group were rooting around too intently to notice. Luckily, another friend noticed said suspicious sloping and alerted us all.

“He has it! I saw it in his back pocket.”

At this point, a deathly silence befell the table as it dawned on us what we must do. We had to confront the balding man, who was now transformed into a 6 foot 4 inch, heavily muscled cage fighter. Three other friends and I looked at each other right in the eye and resolved ourselves to the manly task ahead. We were going to reprimand him; we were going to stop him escaping and we were going to say: “Hey you! You nefarious man, you deadly trickster, our friend wants her phone back and if you don’t give it back then we can’t be held accountable for our actions!”

So, like a pack of highly trained SAS agents, we moved out.

“I have a visual on the suspect” I said.

“What’s the ETA?” a friend replied.

“About two seconds. He’s at the bar.” came my curt, efficient, gruff response.

We got to the man, and for some reason unbeknown to me, I stood slightly in his personal space and said to him: “Erm, excuse me, yeah, hi, do you have my friend’s phone?”

“No I don’t” he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah you do, we saw it in your back pocket” said another friend.

“I don’t have it” he said. Things were getting tense and the suspect and I could see the whites of one another’s eyes. As this staring match was taking place, one of the team slipped back behind his back and began to make a phone call gesture. It was an unbelievable bit of quick thinking; he was urging me to call the stolen phone so it would light up and provide us with incriminating evidence. Taking my friend’s advice, I reached for my phone and drew it out quick as a flash. I went into my contacts, found the number and pressed “Dial”. My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy. Fortunately, seeing as I live away from home, none of my Mum’s spaghetti was on my jumper.

The phone rang and unsurprisingly his back pocket began to vibrate and light up. The team moved in. One of my friends snatched the iPhone cover off the phone, waving it over his head triumphantly like a big bear that has caught a delicious salmon whilst another friend took the actual phone itself. There were, if I remember correctly, four of us and the man knew he was surrounded and as far as he knew any resistance would be futile. Unfortunately for him, little did he know that we were mild mannered fellows and if there had been a fight we would have quite literally soiled ourselves. At this point, I leaned over to the barman and said: “Can you remove him? He stole our friend’s phone and now we have it” and the barman obliged, scooting the man away before we had our revenge (which would’ve consisted of us asking for his address so we could send him an exceptionally long and passive aggressive letter).

We returned to our table victorious; four men who had stared death in the face and death had blinked first. Very surprisingly, hyperbole began to fly around left, right and centre. Quite quickly we were calling ourselves the “A Team” and before we knew it the man had actually had four knives, an Uzi and a grenade. One of the team even had to battle through a pack of rabid dogs to reach him at the bar! Who knew? It was a victory that we all relished, and a story we will take to our graves.

It was also the most painfully British reprimanding that has ever taken place.

As you all well know, or at least should know, there is a serious political crisis engulfing Ukraine at the minute. To compound an already precarious situation, everyone’s favourite implacable, unscrupulous world leader, Vladimir Putin, decided to send the troops into the Crimea region of Ukraine. Whilst everyone around me was baffled, perplexed and worried about what the consequences of this could be, I was rejoicing!

“Go on Vlad, you can do it! Be unreasonable, please be unreasonable. We’ve talked about this Vlad, we’ve talked about this. You can do it!”

Before my dear readers come at me with the pitchforks for being a massive warmonger, please allow me to explain myself, because once I have we’ll all be rooting for War! A very compelling pattern has emerged. In order to write a classic novel, that will be remembered long after my death, I need to go to War and acquire myself some serious psychological scars. Orwell, Bulgakov, Hemingway, Vonnegut, Tolkein all went to war and some, such as Hemingway and Vonnegut were explicitly inspired, whilst in others the shadow of war can be felt in their work. And when it comes to female authors, two of the best, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, had lifelong battles with depression, so knew all about suffering.

So, as you can see World War Three is really quite necessary for me as a would-be-writer, and to deny me this is so selfish. Quite frankly I’m getting sick and tired of all these light skirmishes and suggestive posturing. I need me some war on a global scale; complete and utter turmoil. Of course, I need to survive it, and hopefully heroically. But, World War Three does need to happen, and these bloody politicians, with their talk of reconciliation and “keeping upheaval to a minimum” are getting on my nerves. Channel your inner Adolf Vlad (not that you need to); harness the power of Napoleon Francois; David draw on Winston; Barack be empowered by Truman.

I think the politicians have been so selfish since 1945. If the Cold War had become the Hot War, who knows what amazing literary creations would’ve been spawned from the swamp (is that you Alex Turner?) of world-wide desolation. I’ve tried my hardest to psychologically scar myself for the benefit of my writing, but it’s just not enough. I need to see my friend get blown up in front of me, like Bulgakov, or perhaps hear the mindless slaughter of thousands of people by fire bombing, like Vonnegut. I at least need to have some form of serious, life-threatening (but not terminal) injury that leaves me bedbound and contemplating life and death, like Hemingway. Unfortunately, cracking my head open on my garden steps because I didn’t do my Velcro strap up at the age of four doesn’t count, even if I do tell people my Dad could see my skull (it is with great resignation I confess that this isn’t true).

And so, back to Ukraine. Vladimir, if you have any sort of appreciation for the arts, and the cultural health of humanity, then please do your utmost to make this conflict escalate. Barack, like wise; you follow Vladimir’s lead and retaliate, perhaps militarily, leaving the outcome in no-doubt. Once France, Germany and the UK get involved we’ll finally get what we (I) want: World War Three. At this point I will enlist into some sort of slightly dangerous service, and let the literary genius flow. Yay!

On a more serious note isn’t it one of life’s most haunting and bittersweet ironies, that suffering and pain produces the most beautiful works of art? When humans are hammered, squashed, shot at, and murdered, it is then when some secret, gorgeous parts of their soul creaks open and produces pure lasting beauty. When people are at their lowest ebb, it is then that something truly stunning is created, and something the rest of us benefit from immensely. We benefit from something that wouldn’t have happened without sheer suffering. Read, for example, Mother Night by Vonnegut. A truly moving novel of great scope and invention, but would it have happened without the horrors of World War Two and Dresden? Perhaps not. The politicians can fuck around and endanger millions of life, rest assured that some creative type somewhere is going to attempt to make sense of it all, and probably really movingly. What a beautiful, contradictory, delicious, disgusting irony that is.

Yesterday I had a perfect day, a taste of utopia, and I’m going to tell you all about it. Shall we?

It started with a groan; and some sodden underwear and that is the best way to start the day. I hastily put my grundies in the washing machine and scuttled to the shower to wash off the excesses of shame, self-loathing and mini-me’s. After I did this I ambled back to my room and put on my favourite cream suit. Whenever I wear the cream suit, good things happen to me.

Now wearing my cream suit I had a bowl of wheeto’s and psyched myself up for the day. “Come on Fionny, today’s the day the teddy bear’s had their picnic, and you’re a big teddy bear who will be eating from the picnic of success” I said to myself whilst vigorously rubbing my left knee. I put on my favourite feel-good song, Wait and Bleed by Slipknot, to get myself ready for the day. In case you’re wondering I don’t often put my fingers into my eye as I feel pain on a regular basis – like when I stubbed my toe running out of my neighbours back garden after a spot of ‘bird watching’.

I left and shortly arrived at the tube station, hastening onto the tube whilst everyone was still trying to get off and immediately copped an eyeful of some top totty. Oh baby, she had jugs like the Carpathian Mountains. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and it wasn’t until her boyfriend said to me “Look mate, can you take your roving eyes elsewhere, you’re making my girlfriend feel uncomfortable” to which I responded in parseltongue, forcing another passenger to intervene and usher me off the tube, that I eventually tore my eyes away from the jugs. Oh Daddy like jugs doesn’t he? Yes he does.

On arrival at university I darted to the library and found a nice, secluded spot in a dark corner. It’s so pleasant sitting in the library for extended periods of time as you get to see the absolute conveyor belt of totty that mills through like sexy, vacuous cattle. Whenever some quim sits in my vicinity I enjoy growling softly under my breath and raising and lowering my eyebrows very quickly. Some people have labelled this type of behaviour ‘creepy’ but I think a real man should be able to make his intentions known without feeling bad about it.

Today I was checking out some holiday snaps on Facebook whilst in the library – I believe they were in the album entitled “Thailand ‘13” – and was admiring one particularly succulent piece of meat when said juicy piece of meat has only gone and plonked herself down opposite me! Seizing this opportunity like a crocodile seizes an unsuspecting, but very nutritious wildebeest, I went back to my personal favourite picture (she’s regally resplendent in a red bikini and must’ve been a bit cold which makes the picture all the more eye-catching) and spun my laptop screen into her eye line.

At first she didn’t actually notice my presence (I am unremarkable looking, despite the cream suit) but eventually the incessant clearing of my throat and frantic scratching of my face got her attention. On registering her own voluptuous self, juxtaposed next to my lolling, steak-like tongue she gave me the most inviting look I’ve received. It said: “You are a cretinous piece of shit and if you weren’t so pathetic, flaccid and skinny I’d call the police”. Then she got up and seductively sashayed away, shooting me another one of those looks over her shoulder, clearly inviting me to partake in God knows what activities with her, but unfortunately I had too much work to do so had to let her down.

At about 8 o’clock, after many hours of reading, and many, many unasked for erections, I got the tube home. I put my headphones in full blast and blared out all the lyrics to BlurredLines by Robin Thick, Candy Shop by 50 Sense(less)and Smack My Bitch Up by Mozart (I think).

Once arriving home I watched four of the latest episodes of backroom casting couch. If you haven’t already seen it, I thoroughly recommend you do so. It’s the suspense and noble deceit of the thoughtful plotline that keeps me coming back. After that I wound myself down by rubbing both my knees. I start off slowly and quite sensually, until I speed it up gradually, eventually reaching a manic crescendo of knee rubbing and parseltongue. Very relaxing.

It was now getting late, and time was knocking on the door of 11pm so I took my suit off, scrubbed my teeth and got into bed knowing no dream I had could compare to the day I had experienced. It had everything I could want.

In a leafy suburb outside of the cosmopolitan and exciting city of London there is a mental health hospital. St Peter’s Royal Hospital is the official name, but the inhabitants of the quiet suburb know it merely as “Pete’s”.

St Peter’s is full of a number of colourful characters, but on this particularlyy bright Saturday afternoon, three new inhabitants were brought in, and these three were quite the remarkable triumvirate.

Let’s begin, firstly, with the self-appointed ringleader. His name is Dafydd Cameroon, and every now and then would speak with an outrageously bad welsh accent. He was adamant that his Mother was Welsh and his Father was Cameroonian, and as such, that elucidated the origins of his rather unique name. Yet, it was quite clear from his Union Jack socks, and inbred English aristocratic features that his nationality was English and he was merely a very confused and deluded man. Dafydd was slimey, tottering and had a face that gleamed like rubber, lacking any discernible or strong features. He was without any jawline, cheekbones or chin of note. On the surface, he was amicable enough, yet underneath the pleasant and polite façade resided a dark, volcanic anger that threatened to boil over at the slightest thing. His biggest source of irritation was when people accidentally got his name wrong.

“Hello David, come right this way, your bed is wait….”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME DAVID AGAIN YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH” he exploded on his first day at St Peter’s. The nurse was visibly taken aback, but wrote a note on his chart: ‘don’t call David; gets angry by this – wonder why (child abuse??)’

However, after this rather surprising outburst, Dafydd resorted back to type, telling the nurse over and over again that he knew a black man. The nurse was black herself, and found his insistence that he knew “a delightful black man, you’d really like him, he looks quite like you” at best annoying, and at worst rather insulting.

The second in the triumvirate was an odd man. A very odd man indeed. He walked stooped like a cat would if it stood on its hind legs and appeared to have at least a very crooked vertebrate. Some days, his ungainly and stooping gait gave the impression that he had no backbone at all. His name was Nick Cloggs, and he had watery blue eyes nestled away amongst folds of skin. His face seemed to have collapsed into itself, and his mouth glistened with spittle, yet was slow to smile. When he did smile, it looked very forced and merely created the impression that Nick was battling with sever constipation. His skin was sallow and his hair was floppy, pompous and stuck up like a toilet brush. His eyes were perpetually disappointed. Nick professed to have an intense love of Cloggs, and would often be found to be saying “Look, I’m sorry guys, but I just fucking love Cloggs, ok? They’re just so fucking durable, I promise that if you give me money I’ll buy you the best Cloggs your heart can desire”

However, recently he had taken to wearing Clark’s, the very same shoes that Dafydd wore, but still insisted Cloggs were “just the fucking best”. He could be seen to look down at the Clark’s on his feet in a resigned manner, and if one listened carefully he could be heard to say “I’m sorry” over and over again.

The third member of this puzzling gang walked slightly behind Nick and Dafydd and attempted, but failed quite miserably, to exude an air of aloof, nonplussed, superiority. He walked behind the two in the same way a young teenager would walk behind his uncool, embarrassing parents, trying to pretend he wasn’t with them, but always staying close enough so as not to feel lost. Every now and then, Nick or Dafydd would spin round hurling delightful combinations of words in the man’s direction such as “fucking hell Ed, what’s that wooden thing you’re carrying” and “hurry the fuck up Ed”.

His name is Ed Broadband. Ed spent large chunks of his day rabbiting on about different Broadband services, and had extensive knowledge on all the competing providers. BT was “too expensive” whilst TalkTalk was “too slow”, Sky was “too capitalist” whilst Plusnet was “not capitalist enough”. Dafydd often said to Nick behind Ed’s back his favourite provider was definitely Virgin Media as “he’s definitely a fucking Virgin Nick, look at his shite hair”. Nick would sigh, chuckle and then look at the floor. As of yet, Ed had yet to confirm his favourite provider, but had instead compiled large and extensive lists of all the flaws of each main provider.

Ed was tall, gawky and had a face that inspired indifference. His hair was the type one would casually ruffle in a condescending way, and had the charisma of a box of crackers. Under his arm, he would have with him at all times a wooden pallet, and would often hop onto it to deliver awe-inspiring speeches. Most recently, he clambered onto the pallet to argue his point that “although Tubes are faster, I believe we should get the bus to the British Museum as it’s too hot on the tube and I get sweat patches. I’m just a regular guy, like the rest of you, and like the rest of Britain, I get sweat patches because I’m a regular bloke, like other blokes in Britain who likes getting the bus sometimes”. However, Dafydd kicked the pallet from underneath him and muttered “no one gives a shit Ed”.